what didn't kill me
by Hawthornes
Summary: His arms reach out, hands pressing against the wall either side of her head. He has her trapped—there's no hope of escape.


His arms reach out, hands pressing against the wall either side of her head. He has her trapped—there's no hope of escape.

Though, she has no desire to escape, to move from the position that she's currently in.

Her back's pressed against the wall, and there's no space between their bodies; their forms mold together as if they'd been created for exactly that purpose. And from this close, she can see every single detail of his face—his eyelashes that are too long to be real, his unbelievable blue eyes, the sharp cheekbones and bow-shaped lips.

Shefeels his breath on her cheeks.

Allison opens her mouth to say something, but before the words can pass her lips, he's captured her mouth in a kiss that steals the breath from her lungs.

She hates this—hates how he kisses her and hates how it makes her feel like she's losing her mind. Her sanity slips further from her grasp with every movement of his lips against hers. It's unfair; she hates it—she hates _him. _

He can start a fire within her with the smallest of looks, with the most unimportant words. And he knows it, uses it to his advantage every chance he gets. Isaac constantly encourages her going crazy, as long as it's by his hands and his lips. It's exactly what he's doing now; the reason for his visit is to start a fire deep within Allison—one that only he can put out.

He wants her to realize that, too.

She does. Add it to the list of things she hates.

His hands slip under her shirt, resting on her abdomen, and she can feel a devilish grin cross over his lips as he kisses her harder, more passionately than before. She still can't catch her breath, but she doesn't care.

His lips on hers, and his hands are all that she cares about in that moment, all that she can think about. Fingernails scratch lightly at her skin, and in a swift movement, he pushes her shirt over her head. It falls onto the floor, disregarded and forgotten—totally irrelevant and no longer important. It's better like this, with less layers separating them.

He takes a moment to lean back and admire her figure, the grin still curling on his lips. She's _gorgeous, _absolutely amazing with little to no flaws on in her appearance. Isaac's lucky, and he knows it.

The pair move towards the bed not long after, and their lips remain locked every step of the way. Only a fool would break such a kiss, and neither of them think themselves to be foolish, when both of them actually are. If for nothing else, then for this ridiculous thing they're not allowed to call a relationship.

She's his, he's hers—it _should_ be that simple.

But it can't be. Not with all the complications that stand in their way. Scott, Derek, her father—there's not a person in Beacon Hills that would be the least bit accepting if Allison and Isaac ever decide to put a label to the thing they have.

Except Lydia, being the only one who knows.

Allison's back hits the bed, and he's still kissing her. The wolf lets his weight down on her, just enough for her to feel it, just enough for their frames to melt back into one another's—their curves matching perfectly. It almost has a poetic sense about it, how well they fit together, but Isaac's not that good at English, and Allison doesn't want to try.

She pulls away suddenly. "My dad's home," she points out, looking at him seriously.

He seems to consider this for a moment, but soon deems the fact unimportant. "Then we're gonna have to be quiet, aren't we?"

She's going to argue, but he's kissing her before she gets the chance, and all will she had to protest leaves her. She wants him—no, she _needs_ him, so it doesn't matter.

They'll be quiet as mice and thick as thieves.

In the morning, Allison wakes up alone. There's no evidence besides her memories to prove he was ever in her bed last night. But her memories is all she needs because she knows it happened. A blissful sigh passes pink lips as she thinks about it.

At school, they barely speak to each other. But there's secret glances and stolen touches.

She brushes her hand against his as they pass one another in the hall. He's walking with Scott, shoulders slouched, but the corner of his mouth picks up as her fingers touch the back of his hand for the briefest second. It sounds ridiculous and girly, she knows, but she swears she feels a spark in her skin when she touches him.

Lydia must've noticed the look in her eye, because she nudges Allison in the ribs.

"What?" The brunette says innocently, but she knows that there's a blush in her cheeks.

"Could you be any more obvious? If Scott hasn't noticed the totally eye-fucking going on between you two, then he has to be an idiot," Lydia reports with an unimpressed shake of her head. "Why don't you two just… _date _already? Come out with it. I'm all for the whole booty call kind of thing, but this is getting a little silly."

Allison agrees, but all she can do is shrug in response.

It's another thing that she hates. She understands because _it's complicated, _but that doesn't mean that she has to like it.

There are days when it doesn't matter, days when she would rather not have anyone know, but then there are days—much like today—when all she wants is to be able to reach out and grab his hand. She wants to be seen with him today, seen by everyone. She wants the stupid public displays of affection, even though neither of them are really that kind of people.

And she swears that it has nothing to do with the girl who she caught trying to flirt with him in class. She's in no way jealous—she doesn't _let _herself be jealous.

But she did let herself be proud when he completely shut the girl down and told her, quite literally to get lost.

She's his and he's hers, and she wishes that it could be that simple.

She knows that the paper that falls out of her locker is from him before she even opens it. But, surely enough, it's his scratchy handwriting that splatters the page—she would recognize it anywhere:

_Meet me in the woods after school. Our spot. –I.L._

She does because she can't keep herself away.

The first thing he does when she walks over to where he's seated on the ground is grab onto her hand and pull her down with him. She lands in his lap, and his arms wrap protectively around her frame as he buries his face in the crook of her neck. She smells like strawberries and coffee and he loves it, he can't get enough of her scent.

This is how they are. One moment they could be tearing at each other with sharp claws and cruel tongues—unforgiving of one another's actions and a fiery passion burning deep within them. And the next they could be curled up with one another, laughing and talking about nonsense.

Almost like a normal teenage couple.

She entwines their fingers, and he rests his chin on her shoulders as his eyes search her face. It's an unreadable expression she's wearing—for anyone except Isaac, that is.

Sometimes he knows her better than she knows herself. It's terrifying, for both of them. Because what had started as sex and heat and a core-deep need for one another had now developed into something emotional. They were connected, entwined much like their fingers were right in that moment.

She doesn't know if he loves her, but she's pretty sure that she loves him, even if she shouldn't.

"I see couples together in the hallway. Kissing, holding hands, hugging—doing couple things. And I just… I wish that could be us, sometimes. I _want _that. I want you. Everywhere. All the time. Not hidden, but exposed. Out there for everyone to see, so everyone knows. I want to be like them."

"We're not," he says simply.

Allison turns her head to look at him, lips pursed in a tight line. "We should be."

"But we're not."

No, they aren't. And they might never be.

She accepts it, she understands it—no matter how much she dislikes it. Who knows? Maybe, even, she wouldn't change what they had for something different, something like what every other teenage couple has.

Because they're fire. They're two flames come together to create something bigger, more destructive. It's exhausting for her, exhausting for him—the way things have to be. But that's just it. It's the way they _have _to be. There's too much risk, not enough reward, to think about changing. She'll cling to what little they have with everything in her.

She tells herself that publicizing them would only take the oxygen away. And when you take the oxygen from fire, it suffocates, burns out.

They won't let that happen.


End file.
